

A Story of Glenwood Springs 



Her Word and Her Bond 





















I Her Word and Her Bond I 

p A Story of Glenwood Springs p 



Copyright 1914 
By Malbel B. Beardsley 
All rights refserved 




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To My Friend 
MT. SOPRIS 


JUN 23 1914 


HOW THE SEA CAME TO GLENWOOD 


“All the world loves a lover,” I’m sure you’ve been told, 
And the grand old story will never grow old, 

Of lover brave, and maiden shy. 

Of ache and pain and bursting sigh. 

Of heart with love’s bright flame afire. 

Coquettish iways that feed desire. 

Of daring risks and wooing bold. 

Of maiden fair, however cold. 

His name was Atlantic Ocean, and hers Mt. Sopris fair: 
He had loved her long and loved her true 
But spite of all that he could do. 

His suit he could not declare. 

He had tried for ages and ages — 

(No longer young was he) — 

To reach her feet and tell his love; 

But shy and cold was she. 

She stood with head among the clouds. 

Nor ever looked his wayi — 

Or if she did, he could not tell. 

So far apart were they. 

He fumed and fretted, groaned and roared, 

With desperate passion rocked — 

With mighty fervor threw himself 
Far tO!V/ards the west 
Where she did rest; 

But even this was all in vain — 

He' only slipped right back again. 

His angry tears he threw about, 

And splashed in vain endeavor; 

She still stood cold and proud and grim, 

As if to her a thought of him 
Came never. 

Now, a Jersey maid, who had loved him long. 

And was to leave him soon, 

In walking on the beach one day, 

Saw his distress, and begged the boon 
Of confidence. 


“My dear old Neptune,” quoth this maid, 

“You know I love you well. 

So stop your spiteful splashing 
And to me your troubles tell.” 

So to this friend so opportune, with sympathy so great. 

He opened free his inmost soul, his woes he did relate. 

And she, in glee, did thus agree: 

‘‘I’ll aet as go between. 

For straight unto your love I’m bound. 

Before a week this e’en. 

To Colorado’s clime so mild. 

To Glenwood’s springs so high, 

I’ll carry your love so strong and true. 

To the Rocky mountains so coy and shy”. 

Then he igurgled and laughed, and lapped the sand 
At her feet in highest glee. 

“Dear maid, what can I do for you 
Who do so much for me? 

.Tell to miy love, my dearest love. 

How I faint to see her face. 

How my arms for ages innumerable, 

Her form have longed to embrace. 

They tell me her brow is snowy — 

But her youth I shall ever sing. 

And the flowers so sweet 

That bloom at her feet 

Have not one half the charm complete, 

One word from her can bring. 

* Take these few drops, these briny tears, 

And these few grains of sand. 

As guerdon of the love I bear — 

Leave them in her hand.” 

« « « * 

“My country, 'tis of thee,” we sing. 

Nor east, nor west, should feel — 

And sea, and plain, and mountain high 
Our fellowship shall seal. 

* A bottle of sea water and sand brought from Asbury Park, N. J 


HE SKY was blue as a sapphire, the air like 
wine, the sun brilliant as only a Colorado sun 
can be, and school was out. Two young 
teachers, coming down the steps, were met 
oy another girl, who greeted them with the startling 
words : 

“Well, Eliza, we’re minus a home!’’ 

“What on earth do you mean?” 

“Why, Mrs. Schofield calmly informed me, two hours 
ago, that her brother and his wife were coming out to 
live with her, therefore she must have our room — very 
sorry — likes us so much — but had promised — and so forth 
and so on!” 

“But when?’ and Eliza stared in dismay. 

“Next week. Oh, she’ll not turn us out, she mag- 
nanimously assures us — we can bunk in the little room 
until suited elsewhere.” 

“That little two-by-three room! Not much! I’ll 
buy a tent first. Oh, dear! I had hoped we were settled 
for the winter, at least. But there must be some good 
rooms in town, now that the season is over. Let’s ask 
Eloise — she’s always posted.” 

Eloise was the postmistress — a stanch friend to the 
three girls. With the assurance of perfect welcome, they 
went to the postoffice, made their way to the inner 
sanctum, and gave forth their woes. 

“Can you recommend us to a place? You know 
everybody.” 




s 


Eloise considered a moment, then a sudden gleam 
came to her eyes, as she replied : 

“Yes, indeed! the very thing! Sarah doesn’t like 
her quarters — suppose you all take my house!” 

“What do you mean?” 

“The Shaeffers have given up my house, and it is 
for rent. So you see I’m out of a home, too. I’ll make 
good terms with you.” 

“What would we do with a house?” gasped Sarah. 
“You’re joking,” asserted Eliza, while Anna demandea, 
“Your terms!” 

“I want a home, so do you, and we might test our 
friendship by living together. I’ll give you my house, 
rent free, for three years, if you’ll board me in return. 
At that rate you can hire help — housekeeping always 
is cheaper than boarding — and we can have a jolly, com- 
fortable home by ourselves. All I ask is that I shall 
have a good home, with no care or thought of the engi- 
neering thereof, for each day is increasing my work at 
the office. The Shaeffers pretended to give me good 
board and lodging, but right there in my own house they 
Starved and froze me out, and I am lonely and home- 
sick since mother left me. Now, what do you say?” 

“Say, why, it’s a perfect snap !” exclaimed Eliza, 
while Anna bit her lip doubtfully, and Sarah declared, 
“You’re not the only one who is homesick. It would 
be Heaven!” 

“Then it’s settled,” sighed Eloise. 

But Anna brought forth pencil and paper from her 
school satchel. “Now, let’s ffigger’ : this means business. 


9 


Can we keep house without a girl? and if not, can we 
afford to keep one? Eloise, you’re not in this.” 

Sarah refused to look at the paper. “I don’t care 
what it costs. I’ll go my third if it takes nine-tenths 
of my salary. ‘Figgers’ can’t stand for the delight of 
a home with you girls.” 

“Eloise, you’re a perfect angel !” exclaimed Eliza. 
“What makes you so good to us? You’re giving up the 
rent of that lovely big house.” 

“Like Sarah, I feel that some things are better than 
money. But you young greenies may not know how to 
run a house — remember, I’ll have none of it — and you 
may be out of pocket, after all.” 

“Oh, we’ll risk it ! It’s worth the trial.” 

“But perhaps I’ll pose as less of an angel, when you 
hear further. Each one of you must swear before a 
bonafide attorney that you will stand by this bargain for 
three years. 

Eliza gave a dismayed little gasp, which she im- 
mediately tried to cover, while Sarah said, readily: “If 
I were only sure of my school for that time, I wouldn’t 
hesitate a minute,” and Anna asserted, “With the great- 
est of pleasure.” 

Eloise smiled knowingly. “I’m not going to have 
you giddy young things flying off with the first young 
man who smiles at you, and leave me minus a home, 
with a vacant house upon my hands. Two parties now 
stand ready to take a lease for that time upon it, but 
I am considering my own comfort, as well as yours. I 
shall feel everlastingly obliged — you are doing me a 


10 


great favor — but it must be fixed up in business style. 
I can’t trust you Eastern girls.” 

“How long since you were an Eastern girl your- 
self?” demanded Anna. “If we sign papers, will you do 
the same? We don’t care to get nicely settled, and then 
have you tire of our company and demand regular ten- 
ants. I, for one, am going to make money enough from 
your generosity to keep me in my old age.” 

“You’re more than welcome to every cent that you 
can save. I am getting the best of the bargain and shall 
sign willingly. It will be so lovely to settle down in my 
old age and have three little sisters to care for me,” 
laughed Eloise, who, upon the strength of her ten years’ 
seniority, often assumed elder-sisterly airs toward the 
others. “Shall we com.mission Anna to make out the 
papers?” 

“Yes — but do tell us what they are to say,” and 
Sarah looked curious. 

“You may make out what you please for me to sign, 
but yours must promise that you will take this house, 
rent free, for three years — you, in the mean time, to 
remain unmarried, even unengaged, or pay me the sum of 
$900 — which is less than either of the other parties would 
have paid, had they taken the house. They wanted it 
for three years.” 

“But not each one to sign for $900!” asked Sarah, 
her eyes growing big. “You mean $300 apiece?” 

“Certainly, little simpleton,” laughed Eloise. “Are 
you looking upon me already as such an ogre?” and she 
made this an excuse to draw “the littlest one” within 


11 


her arms. The self-reliant girl had a very tender place 
in her heart for the rather timid younger one, who had 
left her Ohio home and friends to seek health among 
these mountains. Years ago Eloise had come upon the 
same quest, but with a mother to make home for her, and 
Sarah’s youth and shyness appealed to her as the buoy- 
ant cheerfulness of the other two could not. 

In their Eastern city home Anna and Eliza had 
been chums since life began. When, after their first 
year of teaching, Anna’s health had declined, and she 
seemed about to follow her mother to an early grave, it 
was decided that Colorado should be her refuge. But 
father could not stay, even if he accompany her, so with 
her usual decisiveness she refused to leave home, until 
her quick mind settled upon the plan that Eliza should 
go, too. This was finally arranged, Eliza being more 
than ready to “see the world” and try new experiences. 
Instead of school, Anna settled upon music as a means 
of livehood, as being less confining. They now had been 
in Midvale since the June before, Eliza had been teaching 
for three months and Anna already was far upon the 
road to recovery. They were bright and lively, favorites 
with the young people, Eliza especially, having nearly 
every marriageable young man in town at her feet, as 
she teased and flirted with each in turn. 

s|e sH sK s|« s|« 

It was a very gay little family that sat down lu 
the first dinner in the new home. Anna, as having the 
most leisure, was given charge of the household, the 
other two to be her aids. It seemed like a huge joke, at 


12 


first, although the papers which each had securely locked 
in her most private drawer, gave the affair a business- 
like aspect, which otherwise it might have lacked. The 
merry household, with Eloise to chaperon, became the 
favorite resort of the young people, and the months 
passed, with the mixture of work and play — busy brain 
and happy heart — that is the normal condition of man- 
kind. 

One morning in July, Sarah and Eliza had started 
for a few hours at the pool, when a young man, walking 
rapidly toward them, stopped, removed his hat, as if 
about to ask a question, then exclaimed : “Why here she 
is now!” and simultaneously with Eliza’s, “Why, Edgar!” 
seized that young lady’s hand. “Well, this is good! I 
was just about to inquire for you.” Introductions fol- 
lowed, and Sarah imagined that Eliza, for the first time 
to her knowledge, had lost a bit of her self-possession. 
But that might easily occur with so sudden an encounter 
and she soon forgot it, in Mr. Boice’s exclamations over 
the beauties of this, his first trip West. 

“I am on my way to California; came in on this 
morning’s train, and am going to stop over in Midvale 
for three days — if I may,” and he looked inquiringly at 
Eliza. 

“Certainly — we shall be delighted ! but we don’t own 
Midvale, you know.” A slight flush came to the girl’s 
face, but she spoke saucily, and put her hand more 
securely within Sarah’s arm, as she continued — “I am 
glad that you are to stay so long. Anna will be de- 
lighted to see you, and I want you to meet Miss Marshall 


13 


and to see our lovely home. And there are some beauti- 
ful climbs we must take. Let’s get up a burro party, 
Sarah !” 

The young man was duly presented at the house, 
and came each day from his hotel to spend the short 
time with his friends. Climbs by daylight, climbs by 
moonlight, swims in the pool, gay afternoons on the 
lawn, evenings at the large hotel while the band played 
and the fountain rivalled it — all that could be crowded 
into the three days was done. But through it all Edgar 
could not contrive to see Eliza alone. That young lady 
was her usual sweetly smiling self — upon others, sad to 
say, as well as upon him — but she very adroitly managed 
to be always one of three, at least never one of the “two’’ 
that Edgar so gladly would have considered “company.” 
But patience ceases to be a virtue, in time. Upon his 
last afternoon a merry party, with burros, had climbed 
Mount Lookout, eaten a picnic tea, wandered around by 
twos and threes and groups, but never an Eliza for pool 
Edgar. As they started back, in time to reach town be- 
fore dark, he secured possession of her burro, and, with 
the reins around his arm, busied himself in repairing 
some imaginary fault in his own saddle. This succeeded 
so well that the others were out of sight around the 
first curve before he turned to Eliza, who sat upon her 
burro in great impatience. “Edgar, do hurry! It will 
be dark before we get down.” 

“All right; I’m ready now,” turning gaily to her, 
his own burro being directly in front of hers. But when 
she reached for the reins he retained them, saying: 


14 


“Excuse me, Eliza, but I must have a word with 
you first. You know what I want to say. Why have 
you avoided me so?” 

“Why, I haven’t. I have only tried to give you a 
good time.” She laughed, but would not look at him. 

“Well, I’m going to have my ‘good time’ now,” and 
he came to her side with a very determined air. Eliza 
gave her beast a quick cut, but it only responded with a 
flip of one ear, and Edgar continued: 

“Didn’t you say, two summers ago at Elberon, that 
if I’d take you 6,000 feet above sea level, you’d say ‘yes’?” 

“What if I did?” 

“Isn’t Mt. Lookout more than that? You know it 
is.” 

“But I hadn’t seen any Colorado boys then,” began 
Eliza, playing with her whip, but slyly watching him. 
But he seized her hands with a change in his face that 
instantly sobered her, as he demanded : 

“Do you mean it? Eliza, stop playing with me! I 
have taken you at your word, jest or earnest — have plan- 
ned this stopover purposely to follow your own condi- 
tions, and now, as a man, not a boy, I demand your 
final answer.” 

The girl did not know the stern man before her. 
All her life she had played with him, secure in his love, 
happy in her own ; the new tone angered as well as 
frightened her, and she replied, proudly : 

“I never will answer while you speak in that tone.” 

And then Edgar became his old self again, as he said : 

“Forgive me, dear. And be good to me, Eliza. Ah, 


15 


sweetheart ! say ‘yes !’ ” But no ‘yes’ was needed, as 
Eliza turned to him with the look in her face that he had 
waited for so long. She had been thoroughly frighten- 
ed. And those stupid burros stood lazily unheeding the 
sweet things being said and done right in their midst. 
But perhaps they had become hardened through much 
experience. The minutes slipped by — also Edgar’s 
chance of taking the evening train for which he was 
scheduled. But love’s young dream surely is worth 
missing trains for, especially a dream with so glorious 
a setting of lowering sun, grandeur of mountain. The 
world was made for two! 

It took Edgar’s most wheedlesome coaxing and ten- 
derest entreaties to gain Eliza’s consent to spend the 
remainder of the evening alone with him, but he finally 
prevailed, and carried her off to the most obscure corner 
of the large piazza. And innocent Eloise suspected no 
designs upon her cherished home, although Anna, as an 
old friend, was not so oblivious to “might he’s.” 

Edgar retired that night, to dream of making love 
to a little brown burro, while swimming in the pool ; 
waking to the blissful realization that it was only a 
dream. But poor Eliza had no dreams. As she and 
Anna were preparing to retire she was constrained to 
share her delicious secret. And Anna coolly remarked : 

“But you are bound.” 

“What do you mean?’ asked Eliza, entirely puzzled. 

“Do you mean to tell me, Eliza Morris, that you have 
forgotten the paper that you signed before Judge 
Strieby ?” 


16 


Eliza blinked stupidly. “Oh! surely she won’t hold 
me to that!” 

Anna looked indignant. “Would you have the face 
to ask anything else? It cost her something to have all 
those papers witnessed, and she has lost nearly a year’s 
rent already. I wouldn’t be the first one to go back 
on our bargain for all the men in the world. I’ve no 
more to say,” and Anna turned her back so that she 
might not see the real misery in her friend’s face. 

“You unfeeling brute! Oh, how shall I tell Edgar!” 
and the laughing, care-free, saucy Eliza was transformed 
into the dampest of weeping maidens, as she threw her- 
self upon the bed. 

When Edgar came in the morning, it was a very 
sober-faced young lady who accompanied him to the 
train ; and after the fifteen-minute walk and talk, it was an 
angry and sore-hearted young man who started for Cal- 
ifornia. Eliza, with tears, had told him that she could 
not even be engaged to him — she had forgotten, last 
night, that she was bound for three years. What this 
“nonsensical bond” might be, Edgar could form no idea, 
for the girl would not betray Eloise. He threatened to 
miss his train and “find out” from “the girls,” but this 
Eliza would not allow, changing from tears to dignity 
in so frosty a manner that he could not persist. So, 
bidding her good-by with all his na'tive gentlemanliness, 
but with a coldness that chilled her through and through, 
he boarded his train. His last words, “playing with 
me,” rang in Eliza’s ears for many a day. One comfort 


I 


17 


came later — a letter, asking no favors, making no moan, 
but ending with the words : 

“I have loved you too long to give you up readily. 
If you should see any reason to change your mind, a 
word will wipe out that last morning’s unhappiness, and 
I shall be as ever,yours, EDGAR.” 

None but Anna knew of the little romance, and even 
she wondered at the recklessness with which Eliza more 
than outdid her former flirtations. 

Now, a certain young dentist, Colorado born and 
reared, was among the more settled young men in town. 
Dr. Billings had a good practice, a solid bank account, 
was considered a fine catch, and had been ogled by girls 
without number. A pleasant, agreeable fellow, be still 
was rather inclined to let the ladies very much alone. 
But Sarah’s shyness had appealed to him from the mo- 
ment of his introduction. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, 
a friendship grew up between them. Many evenings he 
spent quietly at the house, or as a ready escort, a gallant 
cavalier, for each and all from Eloise to Sarah. Soon 
all came to look upon him as a good, steady, all-around 
friend, ready to “fit in” at odd moments and in divers 
places. If any one thought of him as Sarah’s especial 
property, it was only because of an occasional drive, or 
play, or dance, which was offered to her alone. Usually 
he was “squire to all the dames,” if to one, and Sarah 
was the first to read the true condition of affairs — rather 
from her own attitude than from his. When a girl from 
whom other men cannot bring a blush, a start or an 
extra heartbeat, begins to watch for the coming of one 


man, blushes when he enters the room, and experiences 
palpitation when he looks at her, something surely is 
to pay. 

One Sunday in midwinter he took her for a drive 
behind a span of horses, for being a lover of animals, he 
used his auto for business, his team for pleasure. The 
merry jingle of bells, the rapid motion in the sparkling 
air, the glisten of innumerable sunbeams upon the 
wealth of snow, Ithe radiant blue of the sky, and last, 
but not least, the manly fellow beside her, who tucked 
her in with the tenderness of a woman, but handled the 
spirited horses with the strength and skill of a fine 
horseman — all tended to make Sarah think Colorado little 
short of heaven, and she the most gloriously happy of 
girls. 

For a time they skimmed alond rapidly. Then as 
they slowed up a bit, and came in view of Mt. Sopris, 
gloriously clothed in white from foot to crest, he stopped 
the horses. They sat quietly taking in the beauty of the 
scene for a time, when Dr. Billings began, abruptly : 

“You have been in Colorado both summer and win- 
ter, now. Could you be content to stay here always?” 
He spoke without looking at her, for no one appreciated 
her shyness more than he. She knew what he meant — 
the overwhelming joy tied her tongue. Before she could 
frame the most inarticulate of replies, he, thinking that 
she did not comprehend, looked down at her. 

“How do you like my team? It is yours — if you 
take me too .” The tenderness of a big heart that had 
kept its affection for one woman was in voice and eyes. 


19 


Why was it that, as she looked up to meet and accept it, 
a hateful paper came before her eyes? a paper giving her 
word and her bond ! The glory faded, and wi'th a fright- 
ened look she gasped : “Oh, no ! Oh ! you mustn’t say 
so ! Oh, please” So pitiful a face the doctor seldom 
had encountered even in his dental chair, and pity con- 
quered love at sight of her distress. Laying his big left 
nand over both of hers, he said, soothingly : 

“There, little one ! let it pass. Could thought of me 
bring such terror to your face? That is the worst thing 
that ever has happened to me. To be afraid of me! 
Oh, Sarah 1” 

She grasped his hand — the comfort of its bigness! — 
and pleaded : 

“Oh, Doctor Billings, I’m not afraid of you. You’re 
the very best friend I have; but, oh, you mustn’t ask 
me that! Indeed, you mustn’t.” 

“Well, it’s all right, if only you’ll not be afraid of 
me. Let me still be your best friend, and I’ll never speak 
of the other again. May I?” 

“Oh, yes — I shall be so glad !” and she settled down 
close to him with a sigh of relief. And it was some 
minutes before she realized that she was still clinging 
to that big left hand. Then she looked up with a vivid 
blush as she released it, and found him looking teasingly 
down at her. He did not act precisely like a disconsolate 
lover. 

“Why did you let go? I was enjoying it so much!” 
And Sarah surprised herself by replying, quite a la Eliza : 

“Do you want to let the horses run away and kill 


20 

me?” His voice was very loverlike again, as he replied: 

^They'd have to kill me, before they should hurt 
you !” 

After this things went on as usual between the doc- 
tor and Sarah, but the little pain in her heart was in- 
tensified by the refrain which continually rang in her 
ears. “Never! never!” He had said “Never.” 

The second summer in this ideal home had come. 
If Eliza was a bit “cranky” at times, or unsuually reck- 
less, and if Sarah appeared even quieter than ever, the 
other two took no heed, Anna being the only one in 
Eliza^s secret. But there came a time when Eloise sud- 
denly lost her brightness. She was seen to read and 
re-read a long letter, was abstracted at meals, quiet, 
almost sad, but, if anything kinder and more gentle 
than ever. 

“Girls!” exclaimed Eliza, one Sunday. A big ex- 
cursion — American Bar Association or ‘sich’ — came in 
last night. It is to go out tomorrow morning. Do let’s 
go over to the Colorado and see if there’s any one from 
home.” 

“Why, where is it from? asked Anna. 

“From all over, goosie. I’m interested in the New 
Jersey contingent, of course.” 

“And I in the Ohio,” added Sarah, eagerly. Come 
Eloise, it will cheer you up. And don’t you know any 
lawyers in Chicago?” 

“Plenty of them, years ago. But let us go this eve- 
ning, while the orchestra plays. The excurionists may 
be scattered this afternoon.” 


tu 

That evening the four went early to the hotel. A 
promenade through the rooms and anterooms in quest 
of possible acquaintances, and then they settled down on 
one of the verandahs to enjoy the music. 

“They are a fine looking lot of men, if none of them 
are our friends,” remarked Anna, as they watched the 
strangers, who rather dominated everything this evening. 
But it was Sarah who at length exclaimed, “There’s 
Mr. Reynolds!” and darted toward two men who stood 
admiring the changing colors in the fountain. All shy- 
ness had disappeared as she greeted a home friend. The 
friend’s companion was presented and the three moved 
toward our group, Mr. Reynolds remarking: 

“Mr. Sinclair is not of our party; he is staying here 
for the summer. I’m immensely pleased that I happened 
along to bring you two together.” 

“And you have always lived in my city, Mr. Sinclair, 
and we had to come to Colorado to meet each other? 
How odd !” and Sarah laughed happily, as she presented 
the two men to her friends. 

Mr. Sinclair proved to be a man of position, money, 
and talent, a widower with two children. For the four 
girls, this really was their gayest summer. Through the 
magic of money the days flew by, enriched by luxuries 
to which they, as wage-earning girls, would not have 
aspired. Delightful drives, rides on the tally-ho, excur- 
sions here and there, cosey little dinners at the Colorado, 
followed by private dances — all were offered with a friend- 
liness, a begging of favor, that Eloise could not well 
refuse, especially as he so eagerly accepted invitations to 


22 


their home, and entertainment at their hands. Sarah, 
apparently, was the principal object of these courtesies, 
from the standpoint of a common home, but it was soon 
seen that Anna was the real attraction. Bu^t Anna kept 
her own counsel, until, a week after his departure, a 
letter arrived from Ohio, and she coolly presented his 
respects to the girls, as requested. Then they saw that 
this was really serious — widowers with children are not 
apt to correspond with ladies upon so short an acquaint- 
ance, unless something more than friendship is contem- 
plated. But Anna continued to be her cool, straight- 
forward self, delivering messages from Mr. Sinclair’s 
letters, as a most everyday affair. Sarah and Eliza se- 
cretly watched to see how Eloise would take what so 
obviously meant the frustrating of her plans, and were 
rather indignant at her apparent unconcern, when each 
of them was suffering in secret, because of her. 

One Saturday morning in October, after stopping for 
the mail, Anna and Eliza went to spend the morning at 
the pool. Letters were read, papers glanced through, 
bits of news exchanged, and Anna took up her one un- 
opened letter. She turned it over once or twice, glanced 
uneasily at Eliza, then broke the seal very quietly. It 
was just what she had expected from the tone of previous 
letters — an offer of marriage; plain, manly straightfor- 
ward, ending with a bit of sentiment that pleased even 
the cool Anna. 

“Fate gave me no time last summer to woo my lady- 
love, but just say the word, and in two weeks I will come 
to Midvale, and devote a fortnight to showing you how 


23 


necessary you are to me. In the mountains I found rest 
and health and strength ; do let me say happiness, as 
well.” 

It was impossible to keep the blood from surging 
to her face as Eliza turned from her book to ask : 

“Well, hasn’t he any message for the rest of us this 
time, or is 'this private?” 

“He — I — no, there’s — that is — I believe not,” and 
Anna turned in confusion to the letter again. 

“I told you my secret; aren’t you going to tell me 
yours?” demanded Eliza. And Anna confessed. 

“You must be the first one to know it. If I say 'y^s,’ 
he is coming in two weeks to — to — and I shall write 
tonight.” Still blushing furiously, she did not look at 
the other girl, waiting for one of the impulsive avowals 
of delight and affection naturally to come from Eliza. 
But none came. Eliza only turned quietly away, put 
both hands to her face, and Anna, in amazement, saw 
the tears dropping from between her fingers. Like a 
flash came remembrance of the night, over a year ago, 
when Eliza had made a similar confession, and had been 
received with coldness and reproach. In the light of 
these last months, her own conduct at that time appeared 
like the most wanton cruelty. There came to her an 
idea of what the girl had been suffering all that year, 
with no sympathy from the friend for whom she had 
left an ideal home. These thoughts led to a sudden 
recollection of that hateful paper locked in Eloise’s desk. 
She had forgotten it entirely! Did it not apply to her 
as well as to Eliza? She went hastily to her friend’s side. 


24 


‘‘Eliza a year ago you called me an unfeeling brute. 
That is just what I am. You poor dear! Don’t cry so! 
Let’s go to Eloise. Surely she’ll not hold us to that silly 
promise.’’ 

“That’s what I said a year ago,” sobbed Eliza. 
“What good will it do me now?” 

“Oh, dear! what can we do? I positively can’t give 
Mr. Sinclair up. Eliza, they say that the depth of that 
little spring over there has never been sounded ; let 
us jump in and end it all.” 

Her answer was Eliza’s old merry laugh. To asso- 
ciate cool, unromantic Anna with suicide was too utterly 
funny. Then her face clouded again as Anna turned 
away with trembling lips. “I suppose you can sym- 
pathize a bit with me, now, and can feel what a precious 
year I have spent. Shall you tell him to come?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Anna, dejectedly. “Shall 
we risk telling Eloise?” 

“You needn’t say ‘we’ — I’m out of it now. Yes, tell 
Eloise. That will give you your lover, and he can pay 
her your three hundred dollars. Mr. Sinclair is wealthy 
— you never will feel it!” 

“Eliza, if you ever speak in that way again our 
friendship is at an end forever,” and Anna turned furi- 
ously upon her. “I was cruel to you, and have owned 
to it, and now when I am in the same trouble, you haven’t 
one bit of feeling for me. You have less excuse than 
I had, for you know what it means to give up the man 
you love, and I didn’t.” 

“But you haven’t given yours up yet — and I — I’ve 


25 


had a year of purgatory.” 

“Your purgatory came a year sooner than mine, 
that’s all,” and two tears ran down Anna’s face. 

At this unprecedented occurrence, Eliza’s heart soft- 
ened, and linking her arm in her friend’s as they started 
for home, she said, sadly: 

“You and I mustn’t quarrel. We need each other 
more than ever. But I don’t know how to help one bit.” 

They stopped for a moment upon the curb of the 
spring, and Anna, after watching the bubbles, said tragi- 
cally : “We would scald to death, before drowning, 
wouldn’t we?” Again Eliza laughed, and Anna smiled, 
too, as she said, resignedly, “I guess we’ll have to live 
through it, somehow.” 

So the precious letter was kept a secret from the 
others, and days and nights passed while Anna tried to 
make up her mind what to write. Meanwhile Eloise 
had not regained her old, happy manner, and one after- 
noon she came into the sitting-room where all were as- 
sembled. Her face was really white as she asked: 

“Girls, will you help me get ready for the evening 
train? I have had bad news from home.” 

Sarah came quickly to her side. “Is it what has 
been troubling you since last summer?” 

“Yes. My sister’s husband is failing every day. 
The doctors have almost given him up — and they have 
sent for me. My sister is not living, you know — she 
died four years ago, leaving the three little ones you 
have heard me speak of so often.” 

“And now the father is going, too. How sad !” said 


26 


Eliza, her eyes filling with tears. *‘Yes, dear, we’ll do 
anything to help.” 

“But I have a little story to tell, first. Robert was 
once my lover. We quarrelled, and later he married 
my sister. He has been as devoted a husband as woman 
ever had, and my sister never knew that he cared for 
me — she was so much younger. But I have a letter 
from him, telling how he has longed these last years to 
see me, and begging me to come home. Do you suppose 
I would refuse? But, and her voice rang with a new 
tone, “Tm going to bring him back with me. He will 
get well here; he must! His sister, who kept his home, 
has recently married, and will be glad to let me have 
the children — they are doubly mine. For girls, Fm go- 
ing to marry Robert. That’s the only way I can get 
him to come — and, oh! it’s the best way! It was my 
fault that we were separated, and he cannot refuse his 
only chance of life — and love ! Why don’t you say 
something? Why don’t you wish me joy?” 

Grief had given place to hope, now, tears to smiles, 
pallor to blushes. And just as a woman’s tried love is 
grander than a girl’s can be, so now Eloise was en- 
wrapped by a flood of feeling, of which the sweetness, 
the completeness, was as far above any which these 
girls had experienced, as the crest of their beloved Mt. 
Sopris was above the waves of the Atlantic. She also 
had forgotten the paper locked in each girl’s desk. But 
the girls remembered. Sarah and Eliza slipped from 
the room, while Anna boldly said : 

“It’s all very sad and beautiful, Eloise, and you have 


27 


our full sympathy and best wishes. But have you for- 
gotten the little document you signed and gave to each 
of us?’’ 

“That! Surely, Anna, you couldn’t consider that, 

in the face of any real emergency! Think of ” but 

Anna, the unemotional Anna, broke down and sobbed 
bitterly, as she stuttered : 

“Caii't — can’t — any — any — one — have an — an emer — 
gen — emergency — but you !” 

“Why, Anna, my dear! What do you mean?” and 
Eloise crossed quickly to the couch upon which the girl 
had thrown herself. “Sarah, wha*t ails her? Do you 
know?” 

The other girls had reappeared, and Eliza came to 
her chum’s side. Laying her hand gently upon the 
head pressed into the pillow, she turned to the elder 
girl: 

“Eloise, you say that you are going to marry. How 
about the bargain you made with us?” and she looked 
very stern. 

Eloise turned from Anna and faced — legal docu- 
ments ! 

“Don’t joke, Eliza. You seem to forget that this 
is a matter of life and death.” But Eliza was firm, as 
the unhappiness of the past year rose before her. 

“It’s no joke, Eloise. Give up our papers, release 
us from our promise, or pay us each $300. Then where 
is your money for trips East, for marriages, for family 
trips West again?” 

Anna had in the meantime slipped out, and now re- 


28 


turned with her paper. With a hurt look that almost 
proved the undoing of her friends, Eloise said, proudly : 

“Never would I have believed it of any one of you! 
To do this at such a time!” and she walked from the 
room, with a face whiter than ever. 

“Oh, Eliza! It’s too cruel! I can’t!” exclaimed 
Sarah, while Anna tried to keep her own heart from 
melting. 

“You can’t understand, of course, Sarah,” replied 
Eliza, with a superior air. “Anna and I know what it is 
to suffer.” And Sarah looked pityingly at each, but kept 
her own counsel. And then Eloise re-entered the room. 
She laid the three papers upon the table, accepted the 
other three, tore them in halves and dropped them into 
the waste basket. How tall and stern she looked, and 
how reproachful, as she turned and faced the girls. Busi 
now Eliza was undone. 

“Oh, you poor dear! Do you think you have fallen 
among cannibals?” and she half carried her over to the 
couch. “Now listen,” and very vividly, with some tears, 
she recounted her own experience, and then Anna’s. 

Eloise was shocked, grieved at her friends’ trials ; 
hurt at their lack of confidence. 

“You wouldn’t have thought me such a fiend, would 
you, dear?” and she held out her hand to Sarah. That 
young lady became a whole surprise party in herself 
as she ran to her friend, crying : 

“Oh, but I did !, I did” and, haltingly, she told her 
story. “But, dear, it wasn’t all from fear of you, but 
because no one of us wanted to be the first to spoil this 


... ,, 


29 


lovely home and appear ungrateful to our dearest ‘big 
sister/ ” 

Eloise remembered with a happy thrill that “the 
littlest one” would stay always in Midvale, and, trying 
to still the uneasy doubt that the 1;hought of Edgar’s long 
wait brought to her mind, she rose, saying briskly: 

“And now, girls, you each must run away and write 
a letter. Yes, I insist! Make them short and sweet, 
and then come and help me.” 

That night two important letters were carried east- 
ward by the train that whirled Eloise to her old lover; 
another Idtter, equally important, lay in the Midvale 
postoffice until morning. 



















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